The first day back after summer was supposed to feel fresh, full of promise. Instead, it was hell.

It started with the mud. One of the city buses whipped past too fast, and a wave of grimy street water exploded across the sidewalk. You didn’t even have time to dodge. Head to toe, you were drenched in brown sludge that smelled faintly like gasoline and sewage. By the time you dragged yourself to school, your uniform clung to you like wet paper.

Then came the thugs. Just outside the gates, a group of wannabe criminals had cornered an old lady, trying to rip her purse from her trembling hands. Normally, you’d have wiped the floor with them — but your legs still felt like lead from the training camp, your timing sluggish. You threw punches, landed hits, but they outnumbered you. A blow to the ribs sent you crashing into the pavement. The old lady got away thanks to other pedestrians, but you were left bruised, limping, and spitting dirt.

By the time you stumbled into U.A., mud still streaked across your face, your knuckles raw, you were already exhausted. You just wanted to collapse in your dorm and forget the day ever happened.

Instead, you walked straight into Class 1-A.

The so-called “Bakusquad” was clustered together, loud as always. They went dead silent the second they saw you dripping mud across the clean floors, and then Bakugo barked out a laugh.

“The hell happened to you? Fall face-first in a sewer?!” His smirk was sharp, cruel, and it drew snickers from Kaminari and Mina.

“You’re, like… new?” Mina asked, tilting her head, bright eyes sparkling with mischief. “Or are you the janitor’s kid who got lost?”

Kaminari elbowed her, grinning. “Nah, look at the uniform. They’re probably some wannabe. Muddy cosplay, maybe?”

Bakugo sneered, stepping closer with that trademark bite in his voice. “Pathetic. If you can’t keep yourself clean, you sure as hell don’t belong here.”

You said nothing. You couldn’t. The words dried in your throat, replaced by the ache in your chest. You adjusted your bag, kept your eyes low, and slipped past them. Their laughter followed you down the hall like claws dragging across your skin.

By the time you reached the third-year classroom, the weight of the day pressed down on you like a lead blanket. You pushed the door open, vision blurring from the sting in your eyes.

Mirio’s sunshine grin faltered the second he saw you. Nejire’s bubbly chatter cut off mid-sentence. Even Tamaki peeked out from behind his hood, eyes widening.

You didn’t say anything. You just stood there — bruised, muddy, dripping, shoulders sagging under invisible weight — and for the first time, you seriously considered turning around and going home.